Pity
by GamzeesPanties
Summary: Your name is Karkat Vantas, and you are *so* confused. (Quadrant confusion, Pale Flushed, NSFW)


You're not quite sure how you ended up like this: halfway through the day and locked in a windowless room. You didn't know how (or when, for that matter) the lines between 'pale' and 'flushed' had blurred as much as they did, all you know is that they _had. _Icy fingers trailed down your side, leaving goosebumps in their wake as a familiar pair of painted lips pressed themselves to yours.

Your name is Karkat Vantas, and you are _so _confused. It had been so black and white before - your romcoms never portrayed anything like this, nobody had ever spoken of it in front of you, and it all seemed so ... foreign. Of course there was the occasional quadrant vaciliation, hopping over the lines like a hurried game of hopscotch, but it wasn't like this - It was _never _like this. The way Gamzee touched you, the way his claws scratched at your stomach and how his tongue ever so gently teased at your bulge was so fucking _pale _it made your head hurt. He looks up at you with so much pity in his eyes, and you can't help it when your hand moves down to pap his cheek. It doesn't change when he takes your bulge between his lips and swallows it down his throat, and your eyes flutter shut at the sudden feeling. You feel his fingers trace the folds of your nook before pressing in a bit, then tugging themselves out like he was almost _scared _to do it; as if he didn't want to smear the sacred lines any more than he already had. This was just so ... _wrong. _It was so wrong and raunchy and bad and _completely against everything you were ever taught. _It was taboo, in the purest sense of the word (although, what Gamzee was doing to you at the moment was far from 'pure'). You suppose that's why you liked it, in all honesty. You'd be lying to yourself if you tried to say that the prospect of going against your very culture by doing something as _filthy _and _downright disturbing _as this wasn't getting your rocks off, even if it hurts you to your very core.

And then, all of a sudden, it just ... stops. You whimper at the loss of contact and force your eyes open, only to see your moirail (what a fucking _mockery _of the word, you chastize yourself, eyes immediately drawn to the transluscent red liquid covering his chin) crawling up your chest. That stupid greasepaint he always wears seems to have been long abandoned somewhere along your thighs, leaving only white smudges behind on his otherwise empty face. He kisses you again and it's so fucking pale that it has to be red and it makes your bloodpusher squeeze and your pan hurt but you kiss him back anyway because it just feels so fucking _good _and _right _even though it's so fucking _wrong _that it makes your stomach heave. His long, spindly fingers trace across your cheekbones and into your hair and they make little fucking patterns in your horns and you curse Gamzee to hell for being so goddamned easy to pity and so fucking _confusing _at the same time. His bulge is knotting with yours and you're both bucking and grinding like mad trying to get any friction you can when he suddenly adjusts and suddenly he's _fucking inside you _and it _hurts so bad but it feels so good _ and you don't realize you're crying until he's kissing away your tears and whispering promises of his stupid fucking miracles and then your bulge finds his nook and you _moan. _He's so tight and cool and it feels so good it hurts when he pulls his hips back and pushes them forward with the same urgency.

He's breathing hard into your ear now, and both his hands have taken residence beside your head while you both grind and rut against each other, and he fills you so perfectly and you fill him in return, and it feels so good that you're bursting at the seams with all this fucking pity and arousal filling you up right to your throat. Gamzee nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, his lips find the soft flesh there and he bites and you keen and it's all just so _beautiful. _

Finally, it's there - the familiar winding in your abdomen, and you know you're close. He feels it too, you infer, if his sped up thrusts and hot breath on your throat is anything to go by. When you finally orgasm, you contract and you know he feels it because he does too, and your back arches to press against his chest and then he's kissing you again and it's all tongue and lips and clicking teeth and pure fucking _pleasure._

His legs tangle with yours under the blanket you share, and he kisses one of your horns. It would be so very pale, you decide, if it wasn't for the fact that you were both stark naked and sweating. You're crying again, not out of pain and happiness but simply because you're just _so confused._ Gamzee paps your cheek and whispers encouraging things into your ear, and you smack his chest and ask what _the fuck _you are to him. He smiles, but it's not lazy or overly-happy like it usually is, just kind of... sad. He shrugs, grabs hold of your chin, presses your foreheads together and in his stupid fucking drawl answers that "he don't rightly motherfuckin' know, but he ain't all hot and bothered by it."

Yeah.

Yeah, you don't know either.

With an air of finality, you let your head drop to the pillow beneath the two of you, letting your eyes slip shut.

Your name is Karkat Vantas, and you pity your moirail so much it hurts.


End file.
